It’s best not to make a nest of the unspeakable. Still, for the ones on the mics, the rain was not real unless they could sell it. So I turned them off and listened to the rain. She had so much more to say.
mic check
in the rain
Blog
sidling up
between membranes
When winter stills the air from vapored vowels of our mouths into crystal-edged mirrors between us, I want to imagine that what follows will be sharp enough to see through to the other sides of ancient wounds and cut the teeth of inner ears on choral voices bathing in the residue of final breaths, still unheard. And so I look on, ignorant and wanting while the departed clip still-growing fingernails, blowing steam rings over my head.
wilding
to go forth, into seed, carrying on
If one day when finally tone-deaf I should walk guffawing into the solemn halls, swishing gauze skirts to knock stolid bishops over wooden kings while laughing too loud and blowing smoke rings, it may be observed, by anyone still living who knew me when I was more mild in manner and patient in my time, that she had been a patient woman, once.
But, as these things go, by the time the cork is good and gone, so are the ones with any memory of milder times. So, I will have to be ready when I finally go, to enter with full conviction into the role, because patience, however much a virtue, will only do until the time for waiting has run out, and after so much of that one has to decide to give up the temporary shelter that comes of waiting and dive in full and fast to what certain strangers will describe as the antics of an eccentric elder at fashionable parties, who, after all was just relentless with her offhand remarks, head back and laughing the whole time.
intermissions
recollected
In the in-betweens
we salvaged, bandaged,
offered tea,
and from pieces of
our collective wreck
stitched together
by patient hands
a story,
singing.
one beginning
an original affirmation
Take it, I said again, and gave
this body to mirror you an origin
in chorus of looping yessss, as
susurrations waving shores
to where they waited, wanting
words to answer but I had only
one. It was yes and child
yes again, and there they
were yes child and here,
meaning all of it.
compass
between points
Now here
you read
nowhere
and accept
what had
been there
before now,
unseen.
how far the day
at solstice
Water unto light in space where line speaks to time as you make it. A question of distance moving energies across. From inside, we call after news from away, each in a whisper, come carry me.
locus
mini midnight manifestos
starting a file
calling it now what
as a reminder
back to how
this is about
beginning
masses
velocities over time
How we
through us moved
like hurled bricks
into glass to break what
would not say our names
or ever yes
only no
and once we knew
we threw us anyway
all in.
confession
of desire
I want to do so much more
of what I dream may last
but most of my offerings
are ephemeral in nature.